Gawain

by Gwen Rowley

  “Look, Aislyn!” he cried, his cheeks flushed as he leapt from the saddle to stand before her. “What do you think? Isn’t he the most splendid horse you’ve ever seen? What shall I call him?”

  “Oh! You want me—are you sure?” She was breathless, both from the honor and the way he smiled at her, his gray eyes shining. “Very well, then. He will be—”

  —Gringolet. Gringolet, nearly as famous as his master: Sir Gawain the Fair, they called him, Sir Gawain the Courteous—Sir Gawain, the Hawk of May, First Knight of Camelot, and heir to Britain’s throne.

  Sir Gawain, the faithless churl who had professed undying love for her—and then abandoned her to almost certain death.

  Aislyn had scarcely noticed the other man, bent low over his horse’s hoof, until King Arthur glanced up, saying, “It’s all right. I think it’s just a stone.”

  Aislyn had expected Arthur to be older, for she could scarce remember a time when he had not sat on the throne. Now she remembered that he had been little more than a boy himself when he was crowned; he still had some way to go before he would see thirty, and looked even younger than his years. He was not a handsome man—or perhaps it was unfair to judge him with Gawain so near—but he had a kind face.

  If only it wasn’t Gawain with him! She could not reveal herself to him, it would be madness, though almost worth the danger to see the expression on his face. Oh, how satisfying it would be to tell him precisely what she thought of him in words honed to perfection during five long and lonely years! The temptation was near unbearable, save for the fact that her satisfaction would be short-lived . . . as would she, most likely.

  But now that she had seen the king, she would not let him pass without such help as she could give him.

  Well, there was only one thing to do, though she sighed a little to remember the care she had taken with her appearance today. If she was going to meet the king—as she had been almost sure she was—she’d wanted to look her best. It had been a long time since any man had seen her as she really was, and she’d been looking forward to the king’s reaction when she stepped out of the trees.

  Leave it to Gawain to spoil all her fun.

  Well, she amended, hurrying back to the oak where her satchel hung upon a branch, perhaps not all. Now that she came to think of it, this could be even more amusing than she’d hoped.

  She mixed the potion with the ease of long practice and downed it in a gulp, grimacing at its bitterness. A small moan escaped her as it began to work, but she was accustomed to the pain of transformation now. A few moments later, she reached out a gnarled hand to fumble in her bag, and sighing, emptied the contents of a small vial over herself, her nose wrinkling in distaste as a sickening odor stung her nostrils. Taking up a stout stick, she turned back toward the path.

  “I almost have it,” Arthur was saying when Aislyn hobbled between the trees. The king’s tawny head was bent as he probed the hoof with his dagger. “Son of a donkey! Stand still! I won’t hurt you, if you would just—Gawain, hold his head for me, would you?”

  Gawain dismounted and took hold of the bridle. The king’s horse stilled instantly at his touch.

  “It’s deep . . . but if I can just . . . There!” Arthur set the hoof down and sheathed his dagger. “I don’t think any harm’s done, but—”

  “Arthur, King of Britain!”

  Arthur turned. Aislyn had to give him credit; he did not scream or even flinch . . . much. And he controlled his instinctive start almost instantly. He even managed a smile; a rather sickly smile, true, but she was impressed that he had made the effort. Most men, confronted with the crone that was Aislyn’s particular creation, turned tail and fled.

  “Grandmother,” he said politely. “How may I serve you?”

  “Oh, how courteous!” Her laugh was a truly hideous cackle, one in which she took great pride. “But it is I who desires to serve you.”

  “I thank you,” Arthur said, and amazingly, he did look grateful. “But I have no need—”

  “Do not be so quick to spurn my gift, Arthur, King of Britain, he who rides to his own death!”

  No sooner had the last word left her lips when Gawain’s sword was in his hands. He braced himself and cast a quick, assessing glance to either side of the path.

  “Put up your weapon, Hawk of May! I bring not danger, but salvation to your king. Would you know the answer you have sought, King Arthur? I can give it to you!”

  “You can? Well, I call that lucky—see, Gawain, I told you it would turn out well! How very kind of you, Grandmother.” The king’s smile was so unaffected and so charming that Aislyn felt the warmth of it even where she stood.

  “Come here, Arthur King,” she croaked, crooking one twisted finger. “What I have to say is for your ear alone.”

  “Don’t do it.” Gawain stepped before the king, drawn sword at the ready. “Sire, I mistrust this . . .”

  “Lady?” Aislyn suggested.

  “Witch,” he finished flatly.

  “Gawain, what are you thinking?” Arthur cried, pushing him aside. “Pay him no mind, good dame. He’s a bit unreasonable about magic, but he means no harm.”

  “Does he not, my liege? I beg leave to differ. Men always seek to slay that which they fear.”

  Gawain lifted his perfectly sculpted chin. “I fear no woman.”

  Aislyn smiled. Arthur fell back a pace; Gawain paled, the sword trembling briefly in his grasp before he managed to control it. “Come here, my liege,” Aislyn crooned, “come and I shall tell you the answer to your riddle.”

  “There is no answer.” Gawain had recovered swiftly; he faced her, all belligerent male arrogance. “The question is impossible.”

  “I daresay it is—to such as you. But methinks your king has more wisdom.”

  Arthur took a few steps toward her, then halted, looking as though he might be sick. The stench, Aislyn had always thought, was a particularly good touch. She did not smile again—no need to terrify the poor man—but worked her jaw so the lower tusk slid against the upper with an unpleasant grinding crunch.

  Arthur winced but held his ground. “Yes, Grandmother? What is it you want to tell me?”

  So here it was. This had been amusing, but the moment she spoke, the fun would be over and the trouble would begin.

  Once Morgause realized that the king had slipped through her grasp again, her anger would be terrible. Aislyn did not grudge the king his life—now that she had met him, she was glad to be of service—but she could not discount her danger.

  I might escape, Aislyn thought. I have before. But how much longer can I trust to luck?

  It was her problem, not the king’s, one assumed of her free will, and there was no point in whinging about it now. What galled her was that Gawain should ride merrily back to Camelot, leaving her behind to face his mother’s wrath.

  Again.

  Aislyn clung to his stirrup, looking up at him through a haze of tears. “Don’t leave me here—you can’t!”

  For a moment, it seemed Gawain hesitated, then he set his jaw and took up the reins. “Let go of me. Let go, damn you!”

  He spurred his charger forward, and Aislyn reeled back, catching her hip upon the mounting block before falling to her knees. Too stunned to rise, she watched in disbelief as he galloped out of the moonlit courtyard with his cloak billowing behind him.

  No, not again. Not this time.

  The plan dropped into her mind, perfect and complete. She would be as safe as she could be, and Gawain . . . The sound of her own laughter startled her, but the harsh cackle only made her laugh the more. Yes, she would do it. Let Gawain see how it felt to be betrayed by honor. Let him fully taste the misery of doing the right thing and losing everything that mattered most.

  Let him spend a little time in hell and see how well he liked it.

  “I have a favor to ask in return,” she said to the king, who was eyeing her uneasily, no doubt as a result of her sudden outburst. “’Tis just a small thing, nothing of importanc
e . . .”

  “Name it and it is yours.”

  “I want . . . well, lately, sire, I’ve had the fancy to wed.”

  “To wed?” Arthur struggled manfully to control his mirth. “Why don’t you come to court—as my guest, of course—my honored guest. Stay as long as you like— forever if that pleases you—and we shall look about for someone who might suit.”

  “I don’t need to look about.”

  The merriment vanished from Arthur’s face. “You don’t?”

  “No.” She smiled again, and he reached out to support himself on a tree trunk. “Sir Gawain here is a bonny knight and he says he fears no woman. Well, says I, that’s the man—the only man—for me.”

  “Grandmother,” he replied carefully, “Sir Gawain is— well, he is a good deal younger—”

  “Oh, I don’t mind that.” She nudged Arthur in the ribs and winked. “I will soon teach him all he needs to know.”

  Arthur’s pallor deepened. “I cannot permit this.”

  “What’s it to do with you? He’s a grown man, isn’t he? Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “I’ll give you anything else—gold, you would like that, wouldn’t you? Or—or lands. A castle—”

  “Him,” Aislyn said firmly. “Or nothing.”

  “Then I fear it must be nothing.”

  She shrugged. “I still say you should ask him, but if you won’t, you won’t. Farewell, my king, and—well, I won’t wish you long life or health, why waste my breath?” She patted his arm kindly. “Let’s just leave it at a quick and painless death.”

  SOMETHING was wrong. Gawain could see it in Arthur’s face as the king strode back to his horse. The hideous creature who had accosted them hobbled a few steps and stood by the side of the road, leaning on her stick.

  “What did she say?” Gawain demanded.

  “Nothing.” Arthur swung himself onto his horse and urged it forward. “Hurry up, Gawain,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ve wasted enough time.”

  Gawain leapt onto his charger and kicked it into a canter, his stomach churning as he swept by the stinking crone. “Hold up, Arthur! Tell me what she said!”

  “Oh, some nonsense—it doesn’t matter, you were right, she didn’t know the answer after all.”

  Gawain glanced back uneasily. The hag still stood there, watching them, smiling—at least he thought it was a smile. With those . . . teeth . . . it was difficult to tell.

  He shuddered and turned back to the king. “What nonsense?” he insisted. “What are you not telling me?”

  “Leave it,” Arthur ordered curtly.

  “Did she curse you? Is that it? By God, if she did, I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing. She’s a bit mad, poor creature, but harmless. Let’s forget her.”

  They rode on in silence for a time. Arthur gazed ahead, his expression abstracted, one hand tapping out a rhythm on his knee—always a sure sign that he was upset.

  “Arthur, look at me. Something happened back there. Either you tell me what it is or I’ll go ask the witch myself.”

  “You will not.”

  Gawain pulled his charger to a halt.

  “Damn it, Gawain, I am the king! I order you to stay here.”

  “Then tell me the truth!”

  “It was nothing—no, wait. She said that she would tell me if I—if I made her one of the queen’s waiting women.”

  “And you refused? Are you mad?”

  “Guinevere wouldn’t like it,” Arthur said. “Would you? Having to look at that face every day—dear God, those teeth! D’you think that was actual moss growing on them?” He shuddered. “And her stench! I don’t know how I managed to keep my breakfast.”

  “I am sure the queen would put up with a bit of inconvenience to save your life!”

  “Yes, well, perhaps—I mean, of course she would, but I won’t ask it of her. And that’s an end on it. Belike the old woman doesn’t know the answer, anyway.”

  Gawain seized the king’s bridle. “Arthur, you are the greatest king Britain has ever known, but you are a wretched liar. What did the crone want?”

  “Oh, very well!” Arthur laughed. “It’s so ridiculous, I didn’t like to say—”

  “Arthur.”

  “Shewantedyoutomarryher,” Arthur said. “Now let’s get moving.”

  “She wanted . . . to marry her? Me?”

  “Come along, man, we can’t sit here all the day.”

  Gawain did not move. “To marry her? To marry her?”

  “Stop saying that. It makes me sick to even hear the words. Gawain, I would never ask you—”

  Gawain jerked his horse’s head around. “Do you think you have to? Of course I’ll do it.”

  THE hag was still standing where they’d left her, leaning on her stick as though awaiting their return. Witch, Gawain thought again, and forced himself to look her in the eye.

  She gazed up at him through tangled brows, her expression both amused and strangely knowing. What she knew, he could not imagine, and he found he did not want to try. Her face was a mottled red, wrinkled as a winter apple, and only two teeth—tusks, he thought with dull horror— remained to her, one pointing downward toward her protruding chin, the other nearly touching the wart upon the end of her nose. Filthy gray hair hung in a matted knot to her shoulders, which were bent and oddly twisted.

  “I accept your terms,” he said. “Give us the answer.”

  “Hold up a moment, laddie, I want to be sure we have things clear between us. I stay with you at Camelot. Don’t think you can go packing me off to one of your manors in the back of beyond.”

  Gawain’s jaw clenched. “Very well—that is, if your answer is correct.”

  “It is.”

  “Let’s have it, then. Please,” he added between clenched teeth.

  “Not you,” she croaked. “’Tis for the king alone.”

  “Sire?” Gawain said, and Arthur, who had been staring at the crone, shook himself as though waking from a dark dream.

  “Right.” Arthur dismounted and approached her. Two steps away, he halted and looked back. “Gawain—”

  “Go on, sire.”

  “That’s right, Arthur King, you just bend your ear to me . . .”

  She leaned close. A moment later, Arthur drew back and stared at her incredulously. “That’s it?”

  “Aye, that’s it.” She wheezed with laughter. “You didn’t find it for yourself, though, did you?”

  “No,” Arthur said slowly. “No, I did not.”

  “Well, then, off you go. I’ll be waiting here for your return.”

  “And you are certain I will return?”

  “Oh, aye. That is, I’m certain you’ll give that Somer Gromer Jour what he’s after. Whether you return or not . . .”

  “If your answer is the right one, we will be back,” Gawain promised. “You have my word on it.”

  “And I’ll hold you to it. Even if I have to walk all the way to Camelot to find you.”

  “That will not be necessary.” Gawain could not bring himself to look at her again, but he bowed in her direction before turning Gringolet and starting down the path.

  Chapter 2

  AISLYN eased sideways in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. The crone was well enough for an hour or two, but after a morning’s ride, every joint throbbed like a separate toothache and her own stench was making her queasy. The thought of remaining in this form for even a few days was not a pleasant one.

  Then she looked at Gawain and decided it was worth it.

  He rode perfectly upright in his saddle, his face set in the expressionless mask he’d worn since he returned from the king’s meeting with Somer Gromer Jour. He’d brought with him a pretty little mare for her, a gesture that she suspected sprung more from his unwillingness to have her share his mount than any generosity on his part. Still, it looked well, and he had been nothing but polite during the ride, once or twice going so far as to ask if she would like to rest.
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  It was a good performance. She wondered how long he could sustain it.

  “We are nearly there,” he said. “Camelot is just over the next rise.”

  Aislyn knelt by her window, staring up at the moon, too happy to even think of sleeping. Camelot! She was going to Camelot! She hugged herself, wondering if it was possible to die of joy. She could imagine it so clearly, the two of them riding down the road, Gawain laughing as he took her hand—and there it would be, just as he had described it to her. The new rose garden—“It’s only mud and twigs so far, but one day it will be beautiful”—the proud battlements and lofty towers, the bright—

  Pennants. There they were, splashes of color against gray stone, the standards of visiting nobility hung according to their rank with the crimson Pendragon banner over all, its golden serpent writhing as it snapped in the breeze.

  It was all just as he had said, exactly as she had seen it in her dreams. And here she was riding over the crest of the hill with Gawain beside her, on the way to their wedding.

  She gave an inelegant snort of laughter. If this didn’t teach her to be careful what she wished for, she didn’t know what would.

  THEY did not go to the main entrance, but to a private courtyard apparently belonging to the king. It was a pretty little place, surrounded on two sides by low stone walls twined with trailing honeysuckle just coming into flower. It must smell lovely here, Aislyn thought with an inward sigh. Unfortunately, she could not smell anything but herself at the moment.

  Just as they reached the entrance, Gawain halted. “Sire,” he said. “A favor, if you would.”

  “Good God, do you think I would refuse you anything?” The king shot Aislyn a look of deepest disgust. “Name it and it is yours.”

  Aislyn’s stiff fingers clenched on the reins. What was this? Had Gawain thought of a way out? Or did he only mean to be rewarded for his sacrifice?

  Impossible to tell from his face. When had he become so adept at concealing his thoughts? “Then I would ask that you do not disclose to anyone what has befallen us today, save that you succeeded in your quest.”